


Jutak

by Shandy



Series: Backstories [1]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shandy/pseuds/Shandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jutak has kept a low profile in the Valley of Trials for years, but it's time to redeem a fearsome past</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jutak

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first section of a story of indeterminate length, part of a larger (currently wholly theoretical) series of stories that take place within the World of Warcraft game. In this first entry, we begin to discover the backstory of an orc you could see a hundred times and never notice twice. Frankly, it's my first go at fanfiction, so comments are encouraged!

**Jutak**

“Shield up! Shield up! UP!” Jutak hammered blows down on the recruit, criss-crossing right and left, wielding the steel greatsword so quickly that it seemed no more than a splinterwood dummy stick. The recruit’s shield swung up to meet each strike to the left, while his blade parried to the right, but each move came a beat too late. Unable to match Jutak’s speed, the recruit never got enough extension to lever back against the strikes. Frustrated, he gave ground. Jutak heard him grunt with pain as each blow shuddered through arms that were always at the wrong angle. Training tomorrow would be agony, but that was the way of it. Pain was a good teacher.

Jutak kept at him for a few more minutes, then chose to put the exercise to an end with a furious twisting blow that rang the blade out of the recruit’s hand and sent it skittering across the packed earth of the practice ring, kicking up a ten-foot tail of rust-colored dust. The recruit panted behind his shield, eyes cast down. As Jutak turned and sheathed the greatsword, however, he barreled forward with a throat-tearing roar, the shield now a battering ram backed by all the strength an aggravated young orc could muster.

It was hard not to admire the courage of the desperate attack, but the clumsy delivery was unforgivable. In a single, fluid move, Jutak sidestepped out of his path, tangled his charging legs with a flick of the foot and hammered a punch into the back of his thick skull. The recruit slammed face-down onto the dirt, the heavy wooden shield shattering under his weight. The crowd of trainers and recruits that had gathered around the practice ring roared with laughter.

“Get on your feet. Now.”

The young recruit groaned up to his hands and knees, remnants of the shield hanging from his arm. It took several more breaths for him to stagger to his feet and face his trainer.

“Stand up straight!” The young orc snapped to attention, ignoring the dirt in his mouth and the blood dribbling down his nose. The crowd grew silent.

“Fight to the last, give your all, yes. A warrior’s honor lies in refusing to give up. But, there is no honor in tossing your life away stupidly for pride. Any peon can die such a fool’s death. The warrior knows that half the battle is watching, waiting, knowing the right moment to strike. You may become the greatest to ever swing a blade, but you must learn. Patience is your deadliest weapon.”

The young orc nodded. “I understand, Blademaster.”

Jutak snorted. “No, you don’t, but with time you may. You are not without promise.” The young orc’s battered body pulled up straighter, and his audience grew more still. “You are strong but slow as a kodo. You will drill with Trainer Frang to improve your agility and timing before we meet here again. When we do, you will be faster, or I will make you wish you were. And you will spend what few rest hours we grant you crafting a new shield to replace the one you broke.

“Recruit Gurnak, welcome to the Valley of Trials. Go forth to victory!”

“Lok’tar ogar!” The orcs surrounding the practice ring bellowed their acceptance of Jutak’s decision.

Gurnak looked ready to burst with excitement, but instead snapped a sharp salute, gathered up the shattered remnants of his shield and ran out of the ring to join the other successful recruits heading for the Den. No celebration awaited them there, just stone beds and spare meals, but little would dampen their joy at joining the fighting ranks of the Horde. At least for a week.

Jutak eyed the retreating recruits with satisfaction as she headed out of the ring. “Some promise there. And if not, well, we always need more woodcutters.” Frang nodded as she joined him.

“That last one. I thought that idiot was done for when he charged you.”

“He was my tenth trial today. I was tired.”

“Tired!” Frang laughed. “Jutak Demonkiller, you are the sword that never tires, the blade that never dulls. Still, I’m not sorry you took pity on him. With shoulders like that, I think you’ve found me a champion mace fighter. Sword and shield? Wasted on the likes of him. He was at a disadvantage from the start. Let’s see how you do when I send him back trained and properly armed!”

She allowed herself a slight smile. “Frang, if you can turn that lump of mud into a champion, you should take up with the alchemists and pursue your true calling. Go, join your new warriors and amaze them with tales of your deeds. I am going to wash the stink of their incompetence off me.” Frang’s feigned indignation evaporated into more laughter and, with a light-footed gait that belied his three hundred pounds, trotted after the recruits.

Jutak’s stone hut was half-nestled into one of the sandstone hills near the training area. The fire pit outside still smoldered and quickly burst into flames with a few pokes and fresh fuel. It would not take long to heat the huge kettle of water that squatted over it. Jutak lived as lean as a recruit, eating the same food, sleeping little, running miles through the dry hills carrying full armor. No student would ever have reason to whine that their blademaster bested them because they were more deprived than she. But, hot water? No, after hours in the practice ring sweating like a beast and choking on the red dust of Durotar, Jutak felt she had earned that one luxury.

As the kettle heated, she stepped inside and laid the greatsword on the chest that sat at the foot of her bed. The sword would need cleaning and sharpening before it joined its sister blades, which covered the opposite wall like trophy teeth ripped from a great steel adder. Two wooden armor stands, one empty and one bearing a set of glimmering red-enameled plate, stood sentinel at each side of the door. A small oil lamp lit a group of clay figures set within an alcove carved from the living stone that formed the rear wall. Even though the hut was small, it seemed near empty with so few furnishings. That suited Jutak. She preferred her life simple and her fighting complex.

She stripped off her heavy boots and then her stained leather and mail, hanging it carefully on the empty stand. Like the greatsword, the mail needed tending, and she would not allow herself a meal until the work was complete. She would allow her bath, though.

The kettle was hot when she went outside, and dumping bucketsfull of steaming water into a nearby wooden tub did nothing to ease her muscles. Jutak stripped off her smallclothes, dunked them in the tub, then wrung them out and placed them to dry on rocks near the fire before easing herself down to sit in the steaming water. She didn’t bother to stifle the sigh of relief; ten matches with crude fighters had left her more tired and sore than she would ever admit to the likes of Frang or anyone else. She scrubbed at her skin with handfuls of clean sand from a jar until the dirt turned the water a pale shade of rust.

Muscles easing, ignoring the dirt in the water, Jutak relaxed for the first time that day. The sun was setting beyond the hills that ringed the Valley of Trials, streaking the sky in ribbons of crimson, orange and ochre and orange that made it hard to tell where land and sky divided. Spirits of earth and air, water and fire—she drank the power of the elements into herself and felt her strength return in slow waves, blood heating despite the cooling water. She heard only the sound of the nearby fire and the cry of a rock falcon winging its way home for the night. And the sound of footsteps approaching at a run.

“Blademaster Jutak!” A grunt came running toward the fire, stopping only when he realized that she was occupied in her tub, the one place that everyone in the Valley knew not to bother Jutak. Her glare made him catch his breath. He backed up a step, but didn’t leave.

“Blademaster Jutak, my apologies, but…it’s the Warchief. Thrall.”

“I am aware of the name of our Warchief. What is it?”

“Blademaster, Warchief Thrall is here. He would have words with you.”

Jutak’s jaw tightened, but she otherwise gave no sign of her surprise at the grunt’s words. “Where is he?”

“He’s at the Den, Blademaster. I think he’s with the others now, but he has asked for you.”

“Understood. I will join him shortly.”

The grunt saluted and fled with undue haste. Whether he was more eager to leave Jutak or to return to Thrall, she couldn’t tell. She vaguely recalled a bout or two with that grunt; she was quite certain he remembered them, though. Nobody forgot a fight with a blademaster if they still lived at the end of it.

But, the Warchief. Him she knew well. Thrall’s rare visits to the Valley of Trials were often unannounced—a surprise moment to shock the recruits out of complacency, an inspiring speech to hearten sore young fighters bored with drills, a handclasp or personal word with a legend to fuel stories around the fires. Jutak rarely interacted with Thrall on such visits. To be requested was another matter entirely.

With a powerful push, she was up and out of the bath, water showering off her scarred skin. She yanked up a plug in the bottom of the tub and sent the bath water flowing down a stone channel to a small, tidy garden planted in the hard earth near the hut. Water was hard enough to come by in Durotar; Jutak wasted nothing, even with her one indulgence. 

She debated about armoring up before appearing before the Warchief, but her mail was filthy from the day and certainly would not create an impression that reflected well on her honor. Simplicity, simplicity, that was always best. A quick rummage through the small chest inside the hut produced a sleeveless leather jerkin and trews, both lacking any adornment save the steel rings protectively sewn across areas vulnerable to a quick knife thrust. Jutak pulled on her boots, then ran her fingers through her still-wet hair to spike it into a rust-colored ridge that ran down her skull like the crest of a spiny lizard. No point not looking one’s very best for the Warchief. Lastly, she grabbed two massive daggers from her collection of weapons and strapped one to each thigh. If Thrall wanted words with her, he would have them. If he wanted something else, she would not go unprepared. Jutak set out for the Den to find out which it would be.

 

“Blademaster, come and see! Our Warchief graces us this evening.” Kaltunk, the overseer of the recruits, bellowed his welcome when he saw Jutak enter the great cave that served as meeting hall, hearth and home for the orcs in the Valley of Trials. Fires burned in every crude metal brazier, sending a cacophony of fanged shadows dancing across the stone walls and ceiling. Every trainer, grunt and peon in the valley had crowded into the Den once Thrall’s great white wolf had been spotted by lookouts in the surrounding hills. They thronged the room, standing four and five deep along the walls, straining to see and hear the massive orc that stood in the center of the press.

Dressed in his battered black battle armor, his words and laughter booming, Thrall towered over almost every orc in the room. His back was to the cave entrance as he answered an endless stream of questions from excited recruits in the rear of the great hall. Jutak took her place beside Kaltunk at the rear of the press, eyes on the Warchief as he focused on each of the eager youths desperate for an encouraging word from the legendary leader.

“This is unexpected,” Jutak said, unsure if Kaltunk knew she had been requested.

“Indeed, but never unwelcome to these louts. Look at them. They’d eat him alive if they thought it would gain them the smallest fraction of glory that the Warchief has brought to himself and the Horde. We’ll have broken bones on the training grounds tomorrow when they try to outdo each other.”

Jutak’s grumble expressed her opinion on that matter.

“He wants words with you, you know.” Kaltunk’s sideways glance revealed a mix of curiosity and, beneath, unease. “Should I ask?”

“You can ask, but I cannot answer. I do not know what he wishes.” Jutak crossed her arms and said nothing more, eyes on the charismatic Warchief as he handled the crowd, intent on each speaker as if he or she was the only one present. After a time he stopped and raised his hands to instant silence.

“My sisters, my brothers, champions of the Horde, strength and honor to you all. It pleases me to see that the safety of our people rests securely behind the blades of young and dedicated orcs like these I see before me.” A great cheer rang out.

“We live in restless times, friends. Our people have come far to create this home of ours here in Durotar, and far we have come in finding friends and building the Horde into a force of power and prosperity in this world. But, still we struggle. Still there are those who hate us, who refuse to move forward from the dark past as we have done, who refuse to let us live in peace. I speak not only of those who wish ill upon us within the Alliance—“ At this, an angry roar went up from the crowd. Thrall raised his hands again.

“No, not just the Alliance. I speak of factions within our own people. I speak of those who revel in evil and false dreams of power beyond reckoning. I speak of those who forgo the pride and honor of our ancestors, who spit upon the spirits of the elements, who slaughter their own brothers and sisters in the service of dark powers.” At this, Thrall’s eyes, sweeping the room as he spoke, found Jutak’s half-hidden in the shadows at the rear of the crowd. She did not look away as he held her gaze while the crowd grumbled in agitation. Then, he turned and spoke again.

“Yes, there are those among us who would see us lose everything to once again be slaves. But we will not allow it!” The stone walls reverberated with the collected roar and thunder of stamping boots and clanging weapons.

“Friends, comrades, remember who you are. Remember where you came from. Take pride in all we have accomplished to gain our freedom. Feel the power of our people with each skill you master, each opponent you defeat, each task you accomplish to the best of your ability. You carry the blood and honor of endless generations within you. This is your chance to add your own page to the story of our greatness. March forward with me into the light, and together we will find a future written in glory for the Horde!” The cheers and stomping were so loud that sand and pebbles tumbled loose and rained down from the sandstone ceiling onto the crowd.

Kaltunk stopped his own cheering to brush debris from his hair. “Now I remember why we usually hold these chats outside.” Jutak said nothing, still shaken by the pointed gaze of the Warchief.

Thrall roared and laughed along with the crowd, then raised his hands one last time. “Ah, my friends, see for yourselves. The very stones shake with fear at your strength. Now I must leave you once more to your trainers. Learn much, learn well, and I will be proud to stand by your side.”

With that, he tried to make his way from the center of the crowd but was slowed by the press of young orcs eager to swear their swords and lives to the Warchief. Seeing that it would take Thrall all night to escape, Kaltunk at last bellowed an order for the recruits to stand down and go to the sleeping quarters. They obeyed, reluctantly, and the great room cleared enough for the trainers to get their own, more measured, turns for a few rare words with the Warchief. Jutak again held back, allowing the others precedence. Thrall’s glance continued to fall on her, however, as he made quick progress through the press of trainers, taking pleased note when Karranisha complimented the improved bows coming from Orgimmar and listening intently as Shikrik spoke of her trainees’ slow, steady mastery of their shamanistic traditions. With a wink at Jutak, Frang requested a huge two-handed mace for a promising recruit, then ambled away with a promise to send the Warchief a rank of prime new warriors before the year was out.

At last, Jutak faced Thrall herself and snapped her salute with all the calm she could muster in his presence. “My life to the Horde, Warchief. I understand you wish to speak with me. How may I aid you?”

Thrall was still in his regard, taking a long measure before he spoke. “I am pleased to see you so well, Blademaster. It has been many years since we’ve spoken more than a greeting.”

“That is true, Warchief. I have served you here in the Valley of Trials for a decade. I hope that you have found my efforts satisfactory.” She swallowed. “My only wish is to serve our people.” Thrall nodded thoughtfully.

“Most satisfactory, certainly. Our recruits have never been trained to a higher standard. Blademaster Jutak, let us go somewhere more private. I have a task that requires your…unique talents. I would speak with you alone.”

“As you wish.” As the other trainers stared, Jutak turned and, lighting a torch from a nearby brazier, led the Warchief down a winding tunnel that pierced deep into the hill and away from the more traveled parts of the Den. Never skilled at small talk, she said nothing until she rounded a corner into a small chamber filled with another brazier and a few wooden stools. The wood in the brazier, long unused, was laced with spiderwebs that evaporated with a hiss at the touch of the torch. Jutak apologized for the rough accommodation. “I hope this suits, Warchief. We have little by way of comforts in these instruction rooms, and this one is rarely needed.”

“This is fine. Please, sit.” Thrall and Jutak each took a stool, the fire of the brazier flickering between them.

“Blademaster. I have not forgotten you and your kind since those days in the Eastern Kingdoms. Champions of the Burning Blade, slaves to demons all, until the Alliance put you and what few brethren you had left in chains and imprisoned you with the rest of our race.” Thrall said no more but continued to stare thoughtfully at her, clearly expecting her to respond. But what did he want? Given his earlier speech, Jutak knew something was wrong, but nothing in her recent experience pointed to anything out of the ordinary, let alone something that would cause her to come under some unfounded suspicion. What could she say to reassure him of her loyalty?

Jutak looked first at her feet, then directly at the Warchief, searching for more words than she usually spoke in a day. “I have not forgotten those days, Thrall, though I remember little but the bloodlust that ran through my veins. It was . . . a fire no amount of blood could quench. It made me nothing but the mindless beast of a master I hated. No, like you, I have not forgotten.

“Nor have I forgotten the day you came to free us. Since the day you felled the guards of our prison and invited us to join you, I have followed my Warchief across seas and deserts, through great battles and drudgery alike. I have done my best to honor your vision and train our people to defend themselves with skill and honor. You call us Blademasters, we who were once blind savages who killed orc and man and dwarf alike, but you know we call ourselves your Sworn. I live and die to serve the Horde. My time as a slave to the Burning Blade is done.

“But, if you have decided that my presence is a threat to our peace, I will honor my blood pledge to you. I will cut out that threat myself and die bleeding at your feet.” Her hand slipped to the sheathed dagger on her right thigh, although she knew better than to pull it in the presence of the Warchief without command.

Thrall leaned forward and quickly laid his hand on hers. He said nothing, but a half-smile curled across his face and he nodded.

“I believe you. And, because I believe you, I’m hear to call upon your oath to me. The Burning Blade flames anew, Jutak, and you are going to put it out.”


End file.
